


Blitzkrieg

by Canadihipster (Atomograd)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depictions of metaphorical war, Self destructive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atomograd/pseuds/Canadihipster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it's too hard to snatch another rifle and reposition the helmet upon his head to keep on trooping.<br/>Sometimes, slumping forward and waiting to be shot is easier.<br/>Most of the time, guilt drove him onwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blitzkrieg

Frustration built, tempers rose, and everything fell apart simultaneously. It would be only so long before he was buried in the rubble, as well.

It was almost odd, truthfully, how easy it was to watch himself crumble. At times, the weight of everything was crushing enough to somehow force him out of himself from the pressure of it all, time slowing nearly to a halt for the sake of allowing him a front row seat to his own destruction. The breath would rush out of him and, with it, his very resolve, as if he were mentally stripped down to the bone and left in the freezing centre of some barren wasteland, desolate and shivering against the elements. He was exposed, vulnerable - the bombs were falling and he’d spent far too long rushing everyone else into the shelters, shielding them from the oncoming attack long before the air raid siren even sounded. The fortress not that he inhabited but rather was his very makeup, from his foundation to his roof shingles, was assaulted by the blitzkrieg. The walls were smashed and broken, ruins within seconds, and all he could manage to scramble and hurriedly collect of himself tried to snag whatever was left and build back up. Every time, he’d only get so far before having to abandon his own project of self preservation - Be it for the safety of others or the distressing fatigue clouding his abilities, or even another onslaught of attack approaching.

He had managed to waltz his way right past the mine belt and directly into a trench amidst the battle field itself. He’d managed to wander right on into a war in which the only two sides were himself and also himself, an internal struggle where no one was right and no one was wrong and everyone wanted nothing more than to both crush the opposing side and have themselves taken out, if only to be spared from having to endure much more of the grueling fight. He was dodging shrapnel and catching bullet’s with his teeth, grazed by bayonets and deafened by sharp cries and commands barked all around him. Both an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire and the very soldier squinting at the crosshairs, uniform immaculate while similarly torn and mud splattered - He was battle worn, ragged. He was a one man battalion, a whole regime, every enlisted soldier in the force around the entire universe in one small body, wartorn and heaving on the field. Hoisting everyone’s colours and waving his own whenever he had the rare chance to do so, pushing past his own injured form and rushing onwards forth towards every call of ‘medic!’ from anyone other than himself. He was running in circles, pulling pins only to duck away from grenades tossed by his own hands moments later, hesitating too much to properly sacrifice himself for himself and jump upon the damnable things, take the blast and save the platoons dashing about him. He was falling in trenches he’d dug himself and those everyone else had grabbed a shovel and gotten to work on without even realising what they were doing to him, hindering him on all fronts. He was surrounded and occupied, commanding both sides and rubbing his own face in the dirt, running and hiding and fighting tears just to try and keep himself alive while walking himself straight into death all the same.

Dancing clumsily through the underbrush of unfamiliar terrain he knew all too well, tangling in vines and lines and ropes and parachutes. He was shot down and sunken all the same, lost to his own world war as the water rushed in and filled his lungs and drowned him slowly, engulfed him in the peace of knowing he was decommissioned and the anger of knowing he was but a single name on a memorial stone, that the fighting would never cease no matter how many funerals were planned or how many troops were reported as missing in action. He was stumbling, choking and gagging on himself, shot down and, no matter how much it ached, he refused to help himself, to grab his own arm and drag himself up. His fallen comrade was nothing but himself wheezing against the dirt speckled underbrush, any pound of flesh he could loan was already there. There was nothing he knew how to offer, no canteens he was willing to loan, no peace treaties he comprehended enough to write up and sign. The only ambassadors meeting were both himself, spitting and yowling and shooting eachother down or slumping in defeat, arrested as war criminals for the horrid deeds they’d done to no one other than themselves. The flames were licking at his heels and he was tripping, he was face planting into the pits and catching flame, uniform and gear only weighing him down and adding to the funeral pyre.

Everyone was dead or dying and any he could salvage barely had time to breathe their death rattles before slipping away in his own hands. Had he been able to think through the panic, the self hatred, the disgust and terror, he might have gotten a sick laugh out of the idea - Had Dave not watched himself pass, over and over, previously? Was this dead troll not just another to add to the steadily gaining pile, another bundle of flesh and nerves and words still left unspoken with no rightful, proper place in the world their host had so been thrust unto? Was another slip of the declared dead not a small blanket for the corpse, yet another pathetic attempt to keep the sleepers warm, the only mercy he would allow himself?

Neither side was making progress, and every aching soldier was too hyped to settle and too tired of fighting to truly continue, hearts too worn and bodies too battered.

Karkat Vantas was an exhausted troll, and his war had barely even started.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my Tumblr.


End file.
